


Everything's a Battle

by NovemberBlueSky



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Death, Death only in the abstract, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Leg Injury, Math, Oral Sex, Pilot Poe Dameron, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader-Insert, Sass, Smut, Vaginal Sex, knee injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29422140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovemberBlueSky/pseuds/NovemberBlueSky
Summary: Why does Poe Dameron have to make your job so difficult? Okay, so you finally agree to dinner to make your life a little easier. But does it?
Relationships: Poe Dameron & You, Poe Dameron/Reader, Poe Dameron/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HIII okay I'm just taking a little break from Good Girl and managed to finish this. I hope you like it!!
> 
> This is split into three parts: Chapter One has no smut, Chapter Two does, Chapter Three is the Epilogue
> 
> Warnings for: sarcasm, battle of wills, leg injury (happens before the event of this fic), sex, more sex, female-receiving oral, male-receiving oral, female-reader insert
> 
> Please let me know if I missed a tag!

Your eyes scan the newly uploaded assignments on your datapad, and you heave a sigh. You fight the urge to roll your eyes but give up after only a couple moments, rolling them indulgently skyward. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t like taking reports. Or that you weren’t good at it. It’s just taking Poe Dameron’s reports. Everything was a fight with that man whether you realized it or not. If you found yourself, Maker forbid, flirting with him, thinking somehow that was a win, you were really losing. The objective cost of defeat wasn’t that high if you were like some of the other women on base, who were just looking for a night’s pleasure to distract you from the war. But you? It just rubs you the wrong way. 

He’s just so . . . flippant? And belligerent. He makes documenting every line of his report a battleground. He tries to bargain for each maneuver, each troop tally, each enemy placement. He always starts off his negotiations with a night “wearing nothing but the glow of the stars.” That always earns him an eyeroll. It’s cheesy even for him.

Inevitably, you will pry the entire report from him, formatted beautifully and precise within a millimeter of its life, and submit it to the databases for later analysis. It takes at least twice as long any of the rest of the squadrons’ reports. If he was especially feisty, sometimes twice as long as the rest of the reports combined. It’s exhausting. And baffling. What did he want out of this bizarre exchange except for your irritation? 

You will take his report, and then he’ll go celebrate in the cantina with the rest of his pilot pals and drink and laugh and carry on, until he disappears with someone to a dark empty bunk.

These kinds of days were easily your worst. At least since you’ve been grounded. Most days sucked on the ground, cranking out reports and tactics and battle schematics, but when you were assigned to take field reports? It almost made you wish they’d shot your arm and not your leg. 

You drag yourself to the debrief room, drop down in the swivel chair, and pull up the reports form. The first pilot took the chair opposite you, and you got to work.

Maker, you can hear him in the hallway. What in the galaxy is wrong with that man? He’s laughing and slapping backs, sounding like they’d just won the war. Which they hadn’t. Based on the rest of the reports in fact, three pilots and a supply station had been lost. You can feel each loss as if they had been from your own squadron. And they were still your own fighters in a way; everyone on this base is on the same team, same side. And each death weighs on your soul. When you’d been a pilot, it was always the hours after the fight that were the hardest. For newbies, the adrenaline and fear in the lead up to combat were the hardest to overcome. But as a veteran of fire fights, it was the long, empty hours with the ghosts of the past pressing in from all sides that was unbearable. You used to take long walks under the night sky with whatever light of the moons the base lay under guiding your steps and just breathe in the peace of the stillness. The weight of all the death built walls between most of the other pilots and you. It’s hard to laugh with someone, knowing it could be for the last time. How do you make friends like that?

In a way, the transfer was a gift in and of itself. The other techs didn’t fly into their own deaths every other day. So now, you have two friends. Probably. That feels good. 

You hold tight to that feeling as Poe slaps the door release and leans against the frame like some suave holo model. 

He’s smirking at you. And suddenly it’s too much, the build up, the back and forth, you just don’t have it in you.

“Please, Dameron.” You beg, “Can we just skip to the part where you give me your report, quick and easy?”

His smirk becomes a full blown grin, “What do I get in return?”

Your breath huffs out of you as you drop your head onto your crossed arms atop the table. “This is the part I want to skip, Dameron,” you mutter. 

He saunters to the table, takes his seat, and places a hand on your upper arm in what you’re sure was meant to be a comforting gesture, but you flinch away anyways.

You straighten up and say, “Black One, please submit your report.” Maybe if you just force a professional, detached attitude, he’ll get the message.

“Come one, Red Three. Where’s the fun in that?” His voice softens slightly, so it doesn’t carry the same combative edge it usually does.

“Don’t call me that, Dameron. My leg hurts and I’m tired. I just want to file your kriffing report and retire to my bunk.”

“What about dinner? You should eat.” If you and he didn’t have such a long history of verbal sparring, this would almost be kind.

The way he so casually throws out your pilot designation, like it hadn’t been taken from you, like you were just another pilot, it’s maybe the most hurtful thing he’s said yet. And the more you try to forget it, the more it rings out in your head.

“Dank farrik, Dameron. It’s none of your business. Just . . . drop it.” You lean back, scrubbing your hands over your face.

His shoulders drop at your retreat, and some of the fight seems to drain out of him. He taps his fingers on the table.

“Okay, I’ll give you the report if you have dinner with me tonight.” He has resignation written all over his body posture.

If he wasn’t such a kriffing pain, you might have considered it. Where does he get off being so personal? Maker above. Instead, you push to your feet, favoring your left leg, and bring your palms down on the table. “Write the report yourself, you mudscuffer.” You slide the datapad to him with a flick of your hand, and make your way to the door.

“Hey, hey,” Poe Dameron shouts from his side of the table. “Don’t walk away from me.”

He’s at your side in an instant, and his sheer speed checks your progress. It’s been a while since you’ve trained with the other pilots, and it surprises you how used to the speed of base-life you’ve grown.

You whip back around to face him and snap, “I don’t want to do this foreplay. I told you that when you walked in here. You just can’t stop, can you? Do you even care about anything but the kriffing attention?”

His face is unreadable as you spit your venom. You watch as it spasms and half of you wants to stuff your words right back into your mouth and the other half is celebrating for having finally landed one with him.

You turn to hit the button for the door’s pneumatics, but he grabs your wrist. His grip isn’t hard but it’s firm, and it makes you stop. You feel a thrill of fear. Poe Dameron is the antithesis of violence on base. Even when training, he’s always a little gentler, a little more patient, then is required. But maybe you pushed too far this time. And it’s scary. But it’s the danger that also wakes up something in you. Something that makes you feel truly awake and alive for the first time in months. 

You turn, his hand engulfing your wrist crossed diagonally in between the both of you. You rotate your hand, bringing the outside edge against his wrist. You jerk and break his grip. 

His dark brown eyes were staring you down and made your stomach flip. In a moment of rashness, you raise your hands and give his chest a shove.

It’s maybe half the power you could bring to bear. You’re not really trying to hurt him, but it doesn’t even make him take a step back.

“Do that again,” he growls. He’s egging you on. You pause and take him in, his dark curls, cut short, sprinkled with gray, his scruff that’s bordering on a full blown beard, his parted lips giving away his short, panting breaths.

You think maybe his eyes are dilated, but his irises are so dark you can’t be sure.

You raise your hands and give him another push, this time full power. Dank ferrik, you need to get back on the training grounds, he’s only forced back a single step back this time. 

There’s a glint in his eyes now, and you realize this is just another battle. And you are way in over your head and losing.

“Have dinner with me,” he demands.

You push him again. “No.”

“Two drinks.”

You force him back another step. “No.”

“One drink?”

“No!”

You realize you’re back at the table again. You growl back at him, “Fill out the report, Dameron.”

“No, you do it. But I won’t fight you for it.”

You give an exasperated huff and sit at the same time as Poe.

“Fine, Black One, what was your mission goal?”

He gives you every answer. No bargaining, no back and forth. It’s refreshing. You feel the adrenaline start to ebb as you get into the paperwork. The fatigue returns towards the end, as Poe Dameron describes the mission endgame. It’s been a long day and especially emotionally taxing. You let it wash over you, feeling your arm get heavy, your typing slow, your gaze dip and waver, your leg injury throb with your heartbeat. 

You realize that you’ve been sitting in silence a while.

“Hey,” Poe murmured from across the table, “Stay with me, baby.”

Your head jerks up at the endearment and you squint your eyes at him accusingly.

“There she is,” he exclaims, slapping the table. “Let’s go get a drink!”

You shake your head, uploading the report and powering down the datapad. You reach the door, with Dameron lagging a few paces behind you and slap the door release.

The rest of the hallway to the left is just more multipurpose office rooms, terminating in a large conference room. Everything else, mess, bunks, refreshers, and docks, were to the right. So you both turn right and walk through three junctions. Poe Dameron keeps pace with your slower, uneven stride, before you perfunctorily turn right again towards the bunks and listen, satisfied, as his footsteps continue for a beat and then stutter. The sound comes to you, fainter and fainter as you keep your stride, headed away from him.

He calls your name, sounding genuinely surprised. “That’s not the way to the cantina,” he shouts.

“I know,” you call back. “But it’s the way to my bunk, Black One.”

You hear his exasperated sigh and could perfectly picture the look that would accompany it.

You hear his steps start up and again and relief washes through you, knowing that he was carrying on to the carousing that would spring up around him like he was some anachronist god of drink and merriment. 

You’re almost at the door to the hub which houses your quarters, when you realize that his steps haven't grown fainter, but they’ve trailed you all the way down the hall. You hand hovers over the door keypad for the space of a few heartbeats before you turn back toward him and slump your shoulder against the wall.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you call, watching him pace toward you. You can’t quite define the way that he’s slinking toward you, with aggression or intensity or something else entirely. It sends another thrill through you.

He finally stops once he is looming over you, looking down at you, eyes flashing.

He says lowly, “What about dinner?”

“What about it?” you throw back.

“Don’t you need to eat?” he pushes, leaning closer.

“I’m tired. I’ll eat later.” You shake your head, tired of the games. Tired of fighting him, of playing a game that only he knows the rules to.

Poe’s hand comes up but he seems to second guess the motion and drops it again. He stares at you, as if weighing your words.

“I’ll bring you something,” he offers, but he says it like you’ve got no choice.

“Maker, Dameron. We’re not friends, we barely even know each other! Just leave me alone, yeah?”

He huffs, “You really believe that, that we’re not friends?”

“Yeah, I do. Do you know anything about me?” You narrow your eyes at him, sure that he doesn’t even know your full name.

He pauses for a second, then says, “Alright, well, let’s become friends then.”

You groan and turn to stab at the keypad, making sure it closes behind you and stranding Dameron in the corridor. The hub is a dodecagonal central room with lockers and chests for belongings, and has doors to the bathrooms and eleven personal quarters. You gather your things from your room and cross to the refreshers, taking a long hot shower until your leg unknots and you can barely keep your eyes open standing up. Then you cross back through to your quarters. But something stops you. A smell. Something delightful. You turn and spy the plates of food on the chest stamped with your name. 

Kriff.

Poe Dameron must have come back and left the food. But damn it all to Malachor if it didn’t smell delicious.

You scoop it up and while keeping the towel pinned closed on your chest, enter your bunk room. It’s barely bigger than a closet and holds not much more than the narrow bed. You set the plates on the bed carefully and shrug into the sleepclothes you pulled from your locker before the shower. You eat and fall asleep pleasantly full.

The next day you spend pouring over reports and data. Honestly, if you can’t fly, this is the next best thing. Numbers just . . . sing to you. They can obscure everything or reveal down to the minutest detail. They describe the infinite and infinitesimal. You sigh wistfully and remember from before the Rebellion. The plots you could course, the way that hyperspace and nebulas would unfold for you and your clever calculus. You’d grown up on a world affected by relativity, so you’d known more about space-time than most astrophysicists when you turned the age of majority. No surprise then when you’d found your way on board a ship and been taken completely by the mathematics required. Plenty of ships had onboard computers that could do the basics, but when it came to the serious stuff? Nebulas and gravity wells? Sometimes it needed a little finessing. And especially when an area wasn’t well charted. 

So it’s a good day. Even better because you’d slept well and you get to spend the whole day doing something you love and are good at. 

When you take a break for lunch, you find your two friends, Lu and Che holding a seat at the table for you. Lu pats you on the back as you drop into the seat to her left.

“Good to see you,” she smiles.

Che interjects, “Yeah, thanks for gracing us with your presence, Your Majesty.”

You snort and roll your eyes, tucking into a mix of food native to this planet and nutritionally complete protein goop. 

“I’m so glad time changes none of us,” you reply aloofly, basking in the companionship. 

Che had been the first person to offer a hand in friendship by making a quip about having the bad luck to take the one shot out of a million that a trooper actually makes.

Lu had slugged his shoulder and pulled you into a hug, and that had been that. Best friends. Their other friends had been welcoming but it just wasn’t the same as it was with Lu and Che.

You let their chatter wash over you as you idly rub your knee. 

The last thing you expected was for Poe Dameron and two others to drop down into the seats on the other side of the table.

One of the newcomers jerked his chin at your knee, “What happened there?”

You give him a long look before replying, “I used to be a pilot like you, before I took a bolt to the knee. On Takodana.”

“Oh stars,” he laughs, “That’s crikking rough. You slow or just that bad at getting out of the way?” One thick hand slaps down in the center of your back, making the air whoosh out of you. 

You hear over the coughing to clear your throat, Poe’s words. “Hey, Giruke, leave her alone.”

The other pilot, Giruke, snaps back, “What, you got dibs or something? I’m just being friendly.”

You see through your watering eyes, a spasm cross Poe’s face, before he forces a grin and replies, “I’m just trying to make sure we get to keep these coveted seats, you mudscuffer.” The punch he delivers to his shoulder is too hard to be entirely friendly however, and Giruke winces and flashes his teeth at Poe. 

Did he shave? His jaw looks chiseled, and the fact that you’re even thinking this pisses you off. You don’t even want to think about what he would say if he knew you were mentally comparing him with classical art. His ego certainly didn’t need the help.

A table of six is a little much for you, and you eat so fast it hurts. You stand abruptly, and even Che looks at you askance. You just shake your head at them. You’ll make it up to them both later.

You make a beeline for the cafeteria doors, dumping your tray in the washerslot, and heading back to your station.

You just want to return to your numbers. To the simple enjoyment you were relishing earlier. 

You do your best to settle in and regain that peace. You succeed for a while, cranking out analyses and compilations of supplies and enemy movements. 

You hear a murmur grow in the hallway before you feel hands land lightly on your shoulders. You want to lean into the touch. It is so easy to become touch starved in the crush and stress of war, and the light warmth and pressure might be reassuring if it were Lu or Che behind you. But you know it isn’t.

“You need something, pilot?” you ask hoping to remind him that you are busy, and he should be too, just elsewhere and certainly not inside your personal bubble. 

“Oh, I was just checking on my friend,” he says, and you can feel his breath as it ruffles the strands of hair on your head with the emphasis he puts on ‘friend.’

How are you supposed to answer that accusation? Instead you pull away from his touch and swivel around to face him, crossing your arms defensively. 

It’s not often you feel bold enough to use silence as a weapon, to try to make your opponent uncomfortable enough to capitulate first.

He leans down and rests his hands on the arms of your chair and his eyes watch yours.

You come to feel the eyes of everyone on you both. You hate being a spectacle. You hate being a spectacle because of Poe Dameron even more.

And then you realize that this is a battle that you’re losing too.

“What, Dameron?” you snap.

“You left so early, I didn’t get a chance to ask if you liked my gift last night?” He winks at you, and you feel a flush build in your cheeks. The room fills with titters as everyone else at their stations bursts into whispered speculation.

You let your eyes travel up and down his body and smirk, “Disappointing and not to my taste.”

The room seems to take a collective gasp, sucking all the air out of the space.

That seems to land because his eyes narrow and he leans back.

“You owe me for that.”

“I don’t owe you anything. Now let me get back to work.”

The woman at the station next to you, leans over, like she’s somehow a part of this conversation, and says with a salacious look at Poe, “Now that’s not a very nice way to treat a friend.”

Poe Dameron doesn’t even glance at her, despite the fact that you’ve often admired her delicate features and shiny hair, and replies directly to you, “No, it’s not. But I’ll forgive you tonight at the cantina.”

You grit your teeth. You felt so on top of this conversation a few minutes ago, and now you’re just feeling flustered. Kriffing Dameron.

“I’ll have one drink with you if you swear to drop this whole thing,” you say, laying your offer on the table.

“Dinner, and I’ll only drop it if you genuinely don’t have a good time,” he counters.

You can feel each individual set of eyes on you, and you finally bite out, “Fine.” You can recognize when he’s dug his heels into an offer and won’t back down. No use making more of a fool of yourself in front of an audience.

You try to get back to work after he flashes you a grin and saunters back out into the hallway, but you can’t because the burn of attention and anticipation lingers under your skin.

Eventually you can’t take it anymore, and you jab at the buttons to shut down your station and pull your datapad free from it’s dock. You stick it in your pocket, duck your head, and take off. 

You ponder whether you are in the mood to grab a caf, but you’re nauseous with the thoughts of tonight playing out.

You’d be making a meal into a battleground, and that just wasn’t something to look forward to. Eating, especially with your fellows, was a brief haven, a bubble of peace. A time to enjoy each other’s company and breathe. 

You loved your time flying; the cockpit used to be your haven. Now that the ligaments and joints in your knee were damaged, it hurt too much to bend it to fit in the cramped space in front of the console. Your physical therapy regimen was promising, and there was hope that you wouldn’t need a mech replacement, but you were indefinitely grounded in the meantime.

The next best thing to flying or eating was wandering out in the secret hours in the middle of the night. But of course, it would be hours yet before the sun set. 

You head for the nearest exit and run into Lu on the way out.

“Hey, what’s up? Are you taking your break outside?” she asks, clearly puzzled.

You fidget before explaining, “I just need to take a walk.” Lu continues to pin you with a look, so you eventually explain, “Dameron asked me to dinner. In the middle of my shift.”

Lu just stared for a moment before a dumbstruck expression settled over her features. “He . . . what? Yesterday at dinner was weird enough, but I don’t get why he’s being so pushy?”

“Yeah. I just wish he’d stop. I don’t know.” The truth was that you did know, or at least could guess why he kept at it. You’d flown in a lot of the same missions, including Takodana. He probably pitied you. You’d done what you’d done, and you’d made your choices, and you weren’t going to regret them now. You didn’t want his pity. But this hadn’t been anything you really wanted to share with Che and Lu. All the sadness and twisted up feelings you carried over what’d happened. It was easier to not go over it at all.

“Well, why don’t I come with you? The company will do us both some good.” This was your favorite thing about Lu, she makes the most gently insistent offers, relieving you from the stress of a refused invitation but also willing to accept a declination.

You shrug, and you and Lu set off for the egress portal. She occasionally breaks the comfortable silence with little pieces of gossip or commentary about the people on base or the forest they cut a path through. It’s a lovely way to while away the afternoon, and Lu doesn’t seem bothered by your burdened silence. Being with her eases the burden.

The look on Poe Dameron’s face was almost worth being late to dinner. It was the Basic dictionary definition of indignant.

“Where’ve you been?” he asks, as you and Lu stroll into the hallway that leads to the cafeteria. Poe had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He straightens up at the sight of you and Lu and throws his hands out. 

Lu rolls her eyes at him, “Calm down, flyboy. We were just taking a walk outside.”

Dameron’s eyes snap to Lu before returning to you, “We had a date. I thought you were standing me up.”

You watch Dameron cautiously for a moment. He sounds genuinely hurt. 

“I’m here, Dameron. Let’s go eat dinner.” You gesture for Lu to go on ahead, and she flashes you a look and a grin before heading off to eat with Che and friends. 

You catch up to where Poe waits for you, and he reaches out a hand as though you are both in the habit of holding hands. 

You panic and shove your hands in your pockets instead. You can feel his eyes on you, analyzing you, as you walk together into the cafeteria. He leads you to a small table tucked to the side that only has chairs for two.

You can feel a hush work its way around the room as clumps of Poe’s friends catch sight of him and then fall back into their seats.

You both sit. You fold your hands on the table. Then you knot them in your lap and then run your palms up and down your thighs. 

He’s just looking at you. Maker, why is this so uncomfortable?

He just leans back and laces his fingers behind his head, “So how was your day?”

Ugh, what kind of question was that? “Uh, fine. Except for your little scene. It was good. H-How was yours?” Is this small talk? Okay, you hate small talk.

“It was pretty great. I oversaw some maintenance to my X-Wing, ran some drills, saw you, obviously, and now we’re having dinner,” he enthuses, clearly satisfied.

You nod. What a conversationalist you are.

After a beat, he lowers his arms and leans over the small table toward you. “Hey, are you alright? You look like you’ve sat on a porcuporg.”

You take a second to remember how to breathe before answering, “I don’t know how to do this.” You wave your hand in the space between the two of you. 

“This? Have dinner?” he tilts his head, and you can’t tell if he’s being purposefully obtuse.

You hold out a finger. “First of all, flyboy, there’s no food in front of us, so this isn’t technically dinner. Secondly, I haven’t been ‘on a date,’ or whatever, pfft . . . probably since before the Rebellion. And this? This is weird. We haven’t had a conversation about anything other than reports . . . ever? I don’t know what you want from me, Dameron.”

He sighs and props his head on his hand. “You’re a tough one, you know that? Please, call me Poe. And if you’re gonna call me ‘flyboy,’ try not to roll your eyes everytime you say it.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “You’re really uncomfortable?”

You slump a little but reply, “Yes. Really.”

“Alright,” he says, straightening up. “Stay here.” He takes a couple strides away, but then returns. “Wait, did you really not like the food I left for you or were you just being stubborn?”

You stare at him for as long as it takes you to stop wondering how he gets his hair to look so tousled-chic. “I-it was fine. Um, yeah. Good.”

He squints his left eye, looking for your sarcasm, before deciding he was satisfied and walking away again.

It hits you that you could just get up and leave. Sure, he might know where you sleep, but it’s not like he’d burst into your hab unit, right? 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up after dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay yep, here's the smut. Enjoy!!

You fidget but stay put. For as much as you want to phase through the wall beside you, you do want to honor your word. He seemed genuinely upset when he thought you weren’t going to show up at all.

He returns shortly with some kind of take away box that he was holding by the handle, and offers his free hand to help you rise from your chair. You take it reflexively, only realizing your error once your palm hit his bigger, slightly calloused one. The warmth, the firmness, it takes your breath away.

You straighten and follow Poe Dameron through the cafeteria. He deftly twists his hand so your fingers interlace, your digits slotting between the joints of his larger knuckles. It makes your stomach swoop in an unexpected way.

He leads you out into an overgrown courtyard that used to belong to the ancient complex, now built over and repurposed for the Rebellion. Somehow this little slice of heaven survived, and Poe releases your hand at last, rolls out a ground cloth, and sets the food box down.

He looks up at you and asks, “Is this okay?”

“Is this okay?” You try to keep your voice from cracking. Kriff. What was happening to you? “This is more than okay. It’s great.”

You ease yourself down as Poe unpacks food and divvies it up. He hands you a plate which has a little more exciting food than the typical cafeteria fair on it. You find that you’re actually hungry, but despite that, you find yourself taking in the clearing instead. Most of the stones around the edge of the octagon are churned and broken up but the flora invading the courtyard. Four of the sides are longer than the others so it creates a square with its corners truncated by diagonals. The walls are crumbling and falling inward, lined by tall trees that have screened off the space from the rest of the complex. 

“How did you find this place?” you ask between bites, finally remembering to eat.

He takes a moment to lean back, bracing himself on his forearms and elbows. He tips his chin back and replies, “Black Squadron was running drills, and I happened to spot it from overhead. I came back as soon as I was off duty to investigate.”

You respond thoughtfully, “You don’t strike me as a quiet-green-spaces kind of guy.”

He rolls to his side, Maker how does he make it look suggestive, and takes a bite of fruit, some juice dripping down his chin before he wipes it away with his thumb. He licks the drops off the long curve of his thumbpad, and you idly wonder what his skin tastes like.

He makes a humming noise, “I wasn’t always.”

Is it possible that you’ve underestimated Poe Dameron? 

You finish your nutritional slurry and nibble on some type of cheese. Poe Dameron found this place. He noticed it and sought it out and thought of you.

You set the piece of food down. “Did you plan to bring me here?”

He pauses from sipping from his hydration canister. He makes an uncomfortable amount of eye contact with you. “Eventually. I hoped that you would trust me enough to show you.”

You feel a quiet settle into your bones. Eventually? What does that mean?

“For how long?”

“For how long what?” he asks distractedly as he balances some cheese on a fruit slice. 

“How long ago was eventually? How long have you wanted to bring me here?” You roll your own canister between your palms.

Poe lowers the morsel he was about to eat and examines something fascinating on the ground.

“A while,” he finally answers.

“What does that mean, a while? Did you have to wait until you could outrun me?” You mean it half seriously, half jokingly. Why has he made your job so kriffing hard all these months when he had something this beautiful hidden away?

You suddenly sit up straight. That’s it, you hadn’t realized it, but you had thought about it earlier.

“Is this just . . . Do you just feel bad for me?” You’re already halfway up, snatching up your water, and already angry at how naive you’ve been.

Poe’s shocked face looks much different than his indignant face.

He splutters for a couple seconds before getting out, “Feel bad for you?”

“I don’t need a pity party, Dameron.” You turn to leave, but he’s up and grabbing your wrist.

“A pity party? Where did you get such a stupid kriffing idea?” he shoots back, dropping your wrist now that you’re no longer leaving. 

“Why else would you harass me for months just to ask me on a date?” You can feel your face get red, and you feel an infuriating urge to cry.

“I told you, I want to be your friend,” he exclaims, throwing up his hands.

“Why? You don’t know me!”

“I want to! That’s the whole point of this.”

You grit your teeth and suck in a breath. You won’t cry. You won’t. “If you just want to ask how crappy it feels to get shot by the worst marksmen in the galaxy, just do it already, and leave me alone.”

“You think I don’t know that it should’ve been me?” he roars. Then his voice gets quiet, and that’s somehow worse, “You think I don’t feel guilty everyday that I wasn’t leading that squadron? That I wasn’t there to protect you? Then you don’t know me at all.”

“There! See? Stop feeling bad for me. I don’t regret doing my job or getting shot. It happens. At least I survived. At least I came back.” You angrily swipe away the tears. How many of your friends had died and would never be coming back? Never climb out of their cockpits or hang up their helmets? You’d never get to hug them and bid them good luck again?

His face softens at the moisture in your eyes, and you want to be angrier, but the grief has taken all the radiation out of your solar sails. 

“Hey, hey,” he says, making soft ‘come here’ gestures. You fold your arms instead and make him come to you. “I’m so glad you came back, every time. I worried about you anytime you got in your cockpit because . . . because I had planned to show you this place even before Jaaku. I just . . . there was never the right time. You were gone, then I was. Then you got hurt. And I just wanted to show you that someone knew you, saw you. That just because you went off to be alone after missions, you didn’t have to be alone by yourself.”

He places his hands on your shoulders, and after a moment where you just stare unseeingly up at the stars not moving and barely breathing, he crushes you to his chest. The air goes rushing out of your lungs in a whoosh, and the tears you were keeping so carefully balanced, tumble down your cheeks.

You work your arms free and grab fistfuls of the basic white shirt he’s wearing, gripping him like he’s going to fly away.

You hide your wet eyes in his shoulders while he rubs your back and murmurs quietly. After a moment, he says your name, and then, “I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

You unclench your hands even though they feel locked into place and turn away, trying to dry your eyes and assess how puffy they are.

“I’m okay,” you say thickly. “I’m sorry.”

He gives a small laugh, before replying, “What’re you sorry for? Obviously, we needed to clear the air.”

“I cried all over you,” you giggle, running your fingers over the damp spot on his shoulder. He shrugs and pulls the shirt off like it’s nothing, but you’re immediately enraptured by his naked torso. It’s . . . stars, it’s incredible. It’s smooth and tanned and thick. You can see where his chest and stomach muscles bunch and flex. 

He gestures an invitation to sit again, and you accept it just to distract yourself from him. You stretch out your legs, and Poe shifts to sit behind you, letting you lean back into him. 

“Stars, you’re hot.” His body warmth soaks through your shirt into your skin.

“What made you notice finally?” he chuckles from behind you, the deep reverberation pressed against your back.

“You feel feverish, that’s what. Are you sick?” you ask skeptically. He feels ten degrees hotter than you, easily.

He brings his arms forward around you, surrounding you. “Not sick. I promise. I was just checked out before my last mission.” He presses his face into the crook of your neck, before continuing, “I just run . . . hotter than most.”

His words brush hot trails across your neck, making you shiver. You can’t stop the small noise from slipping out of your mouth. His arms go rigid for a beat, before he breathes again and brings his mouth down to your neck.

You squeak as he places a kiss then swipes a trail with his tongue up to your ear. You squirm a little, making him sink his teeth into your shoulder. This time you go taut, and a moan breaks free from your throat.

You choke out, “Was taking off your shirt supposed to be checkmate?” You have to distract him. You’ll lose your mind if he keeps going the way he is.

He pauses the application of his lips and teeth to the delicate column of your neck. “Checkmate?” he murmurs, the cool air teasing your heated skin.

“It’s from a-a . . . strategy g-game. It means the winning mo-move.” You want to break away, but his arms stay demurely crossed, each hand curling around the other bicep.

“Am I winning? What do I get?” His lips whisper across the nape of your neck.

You stammer crossly, trying not to rise to his bait, “Ev-everything f-feels like a . . . a battle with you.”

“Does it?” he stops altogether, leaning back.

“S-Sometimes. It feels like no matter what I do, you always come out on top.”

“Oh, is that so?” He’s so fast but gentle as he moves out from behind you and looms over you, easing you down to lay on the ground in the time it takes your heart to stutter. He leans over you, “Like this?” He slowly puts a knee down in between your legs, one hand splayed on the tarp on one side of your head and the other is so near your upper arm that you can feel the heat from his corded forearm.

His position makes you breathless, it’s primal and possessive. His body calls to yours, and you want to arch up into him, feel how hot his soft skin feels against your own bare skin.

“As a . . . a v-very literal expression of . . . of a m-metaphor? Yes,” you breathe, Poe’s dark eyes pinning you to the ground with the weight of his gaze.

He puts his mouth next to your ear and asks, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” You feel your arousal coiling between your legs, realizing that you want this, have wanted it badly now for so long without you ever acknowledging it. You used to watch him handle his X-Wing controls, with precision and dexterity and wonder what else those hands would be good at. You can’t count the number of times he’d be walking down the hallway to his hab unit, his flight suit already half torn off, revealing sunkissed shoulders and a thick vein in his neck. You would watch him with all those friends, basking in the sun of his personality and wish, just for a moment, to feel its light. You never saw the way his gaze lingered on you after you’d turn away. How long he spent trying to figure you out, how many times he’d note your quiet and wish, just for a moment, to have a slice of that stillness.

He breathes lowly, “You gonna make me work for it?”

“What do you think, Dameron?” You laugh softly.

He growls, “I thought I told you to call me Poe.” He takes your earlobe between his teeth, tugging on it before sucking it into his mouth and teasing the tip of his tongue over it. The sensation sends electricity skittering over your skin. He’s not touching you at all except for his heated mouth. He trails it down your neck, brushing his lips along your collarbone.

Suddenly his pace is unbearable. You know what you want, now you have to fight for it.

You thread your fingers into his dark curly hair and tug his head up. He makes a low noise that goes straight to between your legs. You take a moment to just look at him, his lips, the darkness of stumble appearing along his jawline, and the dark pools of his eyes.

You both meet in the middle at the same time, your mouths crushing together, bruising with the intensity. 

Poe is all teeth and sucking and teasing tongue, kissing exactly the way he banters. Turns out talking isn’t the only thing Poe’s mouth is good for. You try to match him, but he’s fighting for you now too in earnest. You change tactics, working your fingers against his scalp, massaging and running your fingernails down it, and tugging on his hair. His kissing stutters for a moment and his breathing ticks up. 

You wrap your good leg over his waist, urging him down on top of you. He drops his hips down and you grind up into him, his hot, hard length along your hip, while his thigh wedges tightly in between yours, giving you that friction where you need it.

You shudder and renew your attack; the singular places of contact with Poe Dameron, his mouth on yours and his muscular thigh between your legs, pushing your desire into overdrive.

He trails his mouth along your jaw before licking into the notch in the center of your collarbone. 

He lifts head, ghosting his lips along your chin. “Promise you’ll stop me when you want to stop?”

“Don’t stop, Poe Dameron. Please, for Maker’s sake, don’t stop,” you gasp, breathing in his air, sweetened by the fruit from your dinner. You blink up at the flux of stars above you, fractured by the backlit branches. This is real. The ancient cold stone underneath you, the cool breeze, Poe Dameron between your legs, hungry with desire for you.

He pulls back and seems to consider simply ripping your shirt off before he starts tugging it up. You help him, not wanting to explain to the commissary exactly why you need a new shirt, and soon it’s lying on top of his own discarded shirt. 

You urge him back down, arching into his chest as you kiss him deeply, his skin searing against yours. “Ngh, kriff that feels good.”

“Yeah it does, sweetheart,” he says, licking into your mouth. One huge hand lands on your lower back, splaying across your skin. He trails it up to where your upper back is braced against the ground. He drags it back down before reaching the front of your pants and the fastening keeping them closed. He makes short work of it, and then pins your stomach down with his palm. 

He eases back to look at you hungrily, your slightly swollen lips, dilated pupils, and flushed chest. He groans as he takes one breast in his hand and drops his mouth over the other. He sucks hard, and you scratch your fingernails up his back. The hard suck followed by the scrape of his teeth is delicious, and you moan wantonly. He gives the same attention to the other breast, leaving your nipples glistening slightly with his saliva and hardening even more in the cool air.

Poe Dameron is as good at using his mouth like this as he is at shooting it off. 

Now that you have a break to think, you fumble at the waistband of his pants. You work your hand beneath it, and Poe stills. You pause as well and ask, “Yes?”

He makes a gutteral noise deep in his throat. “Yes.”

Your fingertips brush the head of his cock, already wet with precum. You can tell you’ve nearly soaked through your underwear, and knowing that he’s as affected makes you even wetter. You slide your hand further in, grasping his length. He swallows thickly before he dedicates his hands to pushing down his pants. 

His long, hard cock bobs free. You brush your thumb across the head, smearing the precum and making his length pulse and jump. You squeeze it before bringing your thumb to your mouth and tasting him.

His eyes flutter close, overwhelmed by the imagery. 

“My turn,” he mutters, pulling down your pants and underwear in one motion, bunching around your knees.

Poe takes a minute to pull off his pants entirely, and you push your own down. 

The starlight highlights your skin, bathing you both in cool celestial light.

Then he runs a finger along your soaked slit. He eases your pussy lips open and traces a line from your entrance up around your clit. He brings his finger to his mouth and hums. 

He drops to his forearms and begins kissing your pussy. He licks between your folds, sucks on your clit, and works it over until you’re trembling. His mouth is like a furnace, and the wet slide of his tongue is intoxicating.

“Poe,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m so close.”

His mouth is still hovering just over the apex of your cunt as he replies, “Good baby, let it go. Cum for me, sweetheart.”

Your arousal ratchets higher, and your thighs are trembling with the tension. He eases a finger into your slick canal. You can feel your muscles fluttering around it, eager for the feeling of being filled. He rocks it in and out as he laves at your clitoris with his tongue, the tip of it tracing shapes that make you see stars. He’s so gentle that it makes the edge of your desire all the sharper. 

“You can do it, baby,” he murmurs, his breath cool against your hot, wet skin. “Give it to me, cum for me. Nice and easy. Sweetheart, oh baby girl.”

You didn’t think your muscles could get any tighter, but they do, just before your climax comes rushing down on you. It grips you tight and thunders through you, and you can barely choke out, “P-Poe . . . cu-- I’m cumming, Poe.” He slips another finger inside you, feeling your cunt muscles tightening around his digits. His mouth is even softer on you as he works you through the orgasm, as it keeps going and going, wave after wave crashing down on you and taking your breath away.

At last, your muscles relax, and you slump to the ground, completely limp. He places a final few kisses on your vulva before tracing a hot trail up your body.

You kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He cradles your head and makes this kiss soft too. You’re still seeing bursts of color, and every point of contact on your skin feels magnified until even the breeze feels too good. He lays down next to you and tucks you against him, letting you catch your breath and regain your mental faculties.

Your hands are pressed against his chest and you splay them, drawing one down between your two bodies. He catches it as your fingers dip into his bellybutton.

“We can be done, baby.” He kisses your forehead and gives you a squeeze.

You don’t want to be done. As shattered as you are after that incredible orgasm, you still want him. You need him.

You hook your leg over his and keen, “I don’t want to stop.”

He buries his face in your hair and groans. Slowly, he releases your hand, and you wedge it between your hips and his, taking his length in your hand. It’s thick and veined, the head dark pink and shiny. You tilt your head so you can watch as you work him in your hand. 

His fingers are tangled in your hair, and his grip reflexes periodically, pulling your hair in a delicious way.

On your down strokes, you press the bottom of your fist against the base of his dick, making him buck into hand.

You urge him onto his back and drop down between his legs. You take your hands off of him entirely and lick his balls, teasing him.

It works to your immense satisfaction, and he jerks, gasping, “Dank farrik, baby girl.” You work one of his balls into your mouth and run your tongue over the sensitive skin. You can hear the scratch of gravel as his hands clench the tarp. You switch sides to the other testicle and catch Poe muttering something faintly. Then you drag your tongue up to the base of his cock and along the underside until you reach his cock head. Circling your thumb and forefinger around him to hold his dick in place, you swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting his precum. A strangled moan forces its way past his lips, and he runs his fingers into your hair, rocking his hips in a restrained way, wanting to thrust but holding back for you.

Slowly you begin to take him into your mouth. He’s so big, you can only fit about half of him in your mouth before he’s hitting the back of your throat. As you begin bobbing your head up and down, drool leaks out of your mouth and slicks your head so you can work your mouth and fist in tandem.

You start slow, but soon you’re building speed, trying to maintain the same full strokes even as you work to give him the pace he needs. His hand flexes in your hair as he babbles softly, saying dirty things even as you have his cock in your mouth.

You keep your tongue pressed to the underside of his cock, teasing his frenulum with every stroke.

Your name bursts from his mouth as if it pains him followed by, “I’m close. I’m too close.” 

You manage to increase your speed just a little more, and Poe’s hand in your hair clenches hard, sending tingles down your spine.

His shallow thrusts stutter and his body locks up. Then he’s coming into your mouth, and you can feel the hot pulse of his cock with each heartbeat, filling your mouth until you’re swallowing to keep up with him.

Finally his dick gives a twitch, and his hand loosens. He helps you as you pull yourself back up along his muscular frame until you're nestled against him, absorbing his warmth.

You slip into a light sleep, soothed by Poe’s breathing.

It’s late but still dark when you wake again. Poe is handing you your clothing and sprinkling kisses along your chilled skin. Sleepily you start pulling it on. You distractedly note that he’s already dressed and is now packing up the food.

He helps you to stand, and you open your mouth to say something, but he just murmurs to you, “Shh, shh.”

He takes your hand, and you don’t object this time, leading you back into the base and down the halls to his hab. He sets down the box and tarp on his chest before showing you the refreshers. 

He’s waiting for you when you step out into the taut quiet kept by those who are sleeping. He places a soft kiss on your cheekbone, before opening the door to his quarters. 

He waits, letting you choose. You could return to your own bed tonight, but after just a moment, you enter his room, knowing that you will sleep so much better next to him.

He draws you down onto the bed, lying down next to him. You kiss him softly, luxuriating in the softness of his mouth and the slow pace. You tug on his lip, kiss the shadow of stubble on his strong jaw, and nip at his neck.

His hands roamed all over you, soothing and stoking your arousal in equal parts. You let your fingers touch the top of his pants and the slice of bare skin just above. “Do you want to sleep or . . . ?”

He stills before sliding a hand down the back of your thigh and urging it over his hip. “Do you want to fall asleep?”

“No,” you whisper.

“Good. Neither do I.”

He undresses you, slowly, folding each piece and setting it aside. He kisses both your knees, before undressing himself.

He stands to the side of the bunk for a moment with his hands braced against the wall, just looking at you. His dick is half-hard, and as you trailed a hand down over your breasts to your slit, you watch it twitch.

His eyes widen as he watches your finger slide into your folds and work around your clit. Your eyes flutter close as you feed the fire that’s consuming you. You release a few breathy moans, until you feel a bigger finger replace yours.

You open your eyes as the mattress dips, and Poe joins you, kneeling between your legs, still working your clit.

“Poe, please,” you beg, hungry for him. You reach for his cock, but he beats you to it, notching it at your entrance. 

“Yes?” he asks.

“Yes,” you cry. 

He eases the tip in and stops, bracing himself, his muscles bunching with restraint. His breathing is short and urgent, and you cup his face with your hands. You kiss him, licking into his mouth and sucking on his tongue. 

You feel a slow steady pressure as he works his entire length inside of you so slowly. You can feel how it takes every ounce of control to not just fuck into you hard. The thought drives you into a frenzy, and you bite and lick his neck, trying not to leave any trace.

As if he can read your mind, he says, “It’s okay if you leave a mark.” It sends a primal tingle through your body that he doesn’t mind the symbol of what you’ve done.

“Do you want me to? Do you want everyone to know?” you ask curiously.

“I don’t care if they know that I’m yours,” he says quietly. 

You feel the last few centimeters sink into you. The fullness stretching you at your core and his words rock through you.

“Are you?” Is this really what he wants? Just you?

“Yours? Yes. I have been. Since Takodanna.” It hits like hammer blows as you realize that you haven’t seen him with other women. He hasn’t left the cafeteria with anyone in months, and the rumors of his habits have ticked up in the vacuum of regular news. “Do you . . . do you want that?” he asks, pausing.

“Yes, Poe,” you breathe, and arch against him, urging him to fuck you.

He moans your name and pulls almost all the way out before he thrusts back into you hard. You whimper at how good it feels, and he sets a determined pace, fast enough to drive your pleasure high while keeping his own under control. Each thrust angles into a spot that makes your blood thunder. It feels like he’s forcing the pleasure into you with every stroke. You reach a hand between your bodies so you can touch yourself. 

Your climax grows closer and closer. Your other hand plays with your nipple as Poe drops his head and licks your shoulder.

“Can I . . . ?” he asks, wanting to mark you. The thought sends a thrill through your body. He wants everyone to know that you’re his.

“Poe.” You moan, “Please, I’m yours. I’m yours.”

He growls and sucks hard. You set your mouth on his neck and work on giving him his own mark.

The feel of teeth on your skin sends a ricochet of arousal between your thighs. Your finger works harder, and your orgasm roars up, taking you over.

You manage to gasp out, “Poe,” before it takes you. It sends you into infinity, pleasure exploding through your core and rolling through you. You grit your teeth to keep your cries contained as your lungs struggle to keep up.

His hips stutter, and he pulls out, spilling his load across your stomach. He holds himself over you for a few long minutes as he collects himself, before he stands and pulls on a pair of pants.

He leaves and returns just a few moments later with a hot wet towel. He cleans you up carefully before he tends to himself. 

You make room for him, and he joins you, curling around you as you both drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for your kudos, comments, bookmarks, subscriptions, and love!


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle, comes the healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little wrap up for closure's sake.

You pull on your flightsuit with a grin, grabbing the helmet that had served you faithfully for years. You stride to your X-Wing, your knee twinging because of the storm on the horizon, but loose and strong otherwise. 

Standing at the base of the ladder to your cockpit is Poe Dameron with a cocky smile on his face.

“You sure you remember how to fly one of these bad boys?” he asks, knowing full well that you have passed all your assessments with flying colors.

“You sound scared. Afraid you’re gonna lose that bet?” you shoot back, and he gives you such a wry look that you burst out laughing before leaning in for a kiss. You kiss him hard, and he kisses you back gleefully.

The pilots and techs nearby whistle and cheer approvingly. 

As he turns away for his own X-Wing, you slap his ass playfully, earning you an indignant look that you just love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who takes the time to read 💗 Thank you extra to everyone who takes the time to read and leaves a kudos, a comment, a bookmark, or subscribes!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much in advance for kudos, comments, bookmarks, subscribes, etc., etc.!


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